


The Strange and Sublime

by howlikeagod



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Halloween, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, character tags will be added as I actually write the damn thing, eventual spookiness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 18:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4070083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howlikeagod/pseuds/howlikeagod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is the first chapter in what will eventually be a longer fic. I've been tied up with other things, but I owe a fic to tumblr user winter-h and I'm always eager to contribute to the best Les Mis ship in existence (fight me).</p></blockquote>





	The Strange and Sublime

Combeferre slept late that morning. It was one of his rare free days: no classes, no Amis meetings, and a startling lack of things that required his urgent attention. He rose, yawning, ran a hand through his rumpled bedhead, and set about editing the most recent draft of a paper that wasn’t due until the following week. He began casually, but quickly fell into a fervor. He was trying to fill the space left by an entire scrapped paragraph, papers scattered across his desk and a pen between his teeth, when a sound startled him out of his focused state. There was a soft knock on the door, followed immediately by the swishing sound of paper sliding across a hardwood floor. A smile spread like the dawn across Combeferre’s face; he knew only one person who would deliver a message that way.

Leaving his work for later, he made it to the foyer just in time to hear hurried footsteps moving down the hall outside the apartment. At his feet lay an envelope, sealed with a wax stamp. Combeferre brought it back to his bedroom, slitting it open with a letter opener that had been a Christmas gift the previous year. Inside was a piece of paper, and on it was written in a looping script:

_Meet me where the river knows our names. -Prouvaire_

* * *

 There are thirty-seven bridges that cross the Seine in the city of Paris. Some are older than others, some receive near-constant traffic and some echo with solitude. There is one bridge, perfectly equidistant from the apartments of two particular, singular young men, which can be said to possess the second of those traits; few people walk across it, and fewer still step down from the street to stand on the ledge between its underside and the river.

Combeferre was of the rare sort to make this short trip. He had left immediately after reading the note, and arrived just as distant church bells chimed the noon hour. He found a sitting figure, chin resting on his knees, smoking pensively.

“There’s not a single Romantic thing about dying of lung cancer,” Combeferre said by way of a greeting.

“You sound like our dear Jolllly,” Prouvaire replied fondly. He took one final drag and acquiesced to put out the cigarette. “I like to think my lungs will hold out against the smoke in the same manner I have held out against the two of you, and your shared refusal to tolerate my filthy habit.”

“I can only hope the latter gives in before the former.” Combeferre settled in next to him, and they watched the monolithic river journey past. The bridge shielded the two from the view of passers-by, but added a damp chill to the already-crisp autumn air. He felt the eternal summer warmth of Prouvaire soaking through the layers of clothing between them. Prouvaire slid an arm around Combeferre’s shoulders and held him close. Combeferre tucked his head beneath his chin. With his temple against Prouvaire’s collarbone, Combeferre listened to the caged bird of Jehan’s heart fluttering just inches away.

“I could stay here for an eternity,” Prouvaire began after a while. “Or at least until the sun sets. To spend a leisurely afternoon with you and the river seems the highest of all pursuits.”

“Of course.” Combeferre smiled. He turned his head and his lips moved against Prouvaire’s skin. “But if we’re going to spend a day alone, I’d prefer to do it somewhere inside. The weather is turning cold, my dear, though you seem to have been born from the very mountain wind itself and never feel it.”

“Ah, right. I always forget that you get cold easily. Since we’re leaving, then, I might as well show you the reason I sent the note.” Prouvaire gently pulled away from Combeferre and leapt to his feet. He stooped as he stood, a bit too tall to fit in the alcove beneath the bridge when standing straight. Offering a hand to Combeferre, Prouvaire helped him up and pressed him back against the bricks.

“But one more thing before we go,” he said. His breath ghosted over Combeferre’s lips and brought with it a tingling warmth. Prouvaire’s dark brown eyes met Combeferre’s in a way as simple and familiar as breathing. That simplicity progressed to its next logical conclusion when their mouths met. Combeferre wrapped his arms around Prouvaire’s neck and pulled him down the last inch needed to find the perfect angle for their tongues and lips and bodies to fit. Prouvaire’s hands clutched at Combeferre’s back and hip. Sighs fluttered out from between two sets of lips and flew away with shining leaves in the October breeze. The hand at Combeferre’s side trailed its way up to caress his cheek, and the hands on Prouvaire’s shoulders climbed to his hair. The world narrowed to nothing but the airless ecstasy of kissing the love of one’s life.

With a few final, lingering touches, they separated. Combeferre’s face was flushed; Jehan’s, candy-apple red.

“I’m not so cold anymore,” Combeferre laughed. It was a softer laugh than his usual chest-deep chuckle, a private laugh for one person only. Prouvaire grinned.

“It was an honor to warm you up.” They stepped out from beneath the bridge like emerging from an empty cathedral into the raucous sunlight. Hand-in-hand, they casually rejoined the turning of the world.

On the rapidly-cooling stone wall, just where this pair of young men had shared breaths moments before, was a piece of that oldest and most innocent kind of graffiti: the carving of a pair of names. It was weathered enough to show the passage of a handful of years, yet as legible as the day it was made.

_Jean Prouvaire + Combeferre_

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter in what will eventually be a longer fic. I've been tied up with other things, but I owe a fic to tumblr user winter-h and I'm always eager to contribute to the best Les Mis ship in existence (fight me).


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